


U is for Utkatasana

by vipjuly



Series: ZYX's [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Castiel (Supernatural), Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Dean's Tiny Red Shorts, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Top Dean Winchester, Yoga Instructor Castiel (Supernatural), Yoga Instructor Dean, inappropriate use of yoga poses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 20:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18645184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipjuly/pseuds/vipjuly
Summary: Castiel owns a quaint little yoga studio in a quaint little neighborhood. Everything is peaceful, quaint, and perfect, every day. So quaint. So nice.Dean Winchester opens a yoga studio on the other corner and breaks the peace.Who thefuckdoes yoga to rock music?





	U is for Utkatasana

**Author's Note:**

> chair pose

Before sunrise is Castiel’s favorite time of day. He loves the short walk from his studio apartment to his yoga studio, a good five blocks, where he can take in his surroundings peacefully and quietly at any given time of year. Summer is, of course, his favored season, since the sun rises so early and always brings warmth with it, making way for a spacious and fulfilling day. Mornings are quiet and reflective, and Castiel can organize his thoughts easily about his upcoming day. He’s a sought after yoga instructor and many commute quite a ways just to have a class with him, so he always takes this time to make sure he’s at one-hundred percent and can give his clients exactly what they need and, coincidentally, what they pay for. 

Today he passes by a man erecting a sandwich board outside a corner studio. Slowing his gait, Castiel reads “METALLICA MEDITATION” in loud orange font on a black sign, yellow lightning bolts accenting the empty spaces. The man putting the sign out is dressed in tight red biker shorts that show off his bow legs and bubble butt, his muscle tank top loose and stretched out in the straps and pits but tapered at his waist. Heat and attraction flash through Castiel’s core and when the guy glances up, the morning sun catching the golden highlights in his hair and the spring green in his eyes, it’s all Castiel can do to not trip over himself. 

“Mornin’!” the guy greets cheerfully. Oh, his _smile_.

“Good morning,” Castiel replies, a bit stilted. He adjusts the strap of his yoga mat bag across his chest and offers what he thinks might pass as a pleased smile (he might look constipated, though), and then carries on. 

He can feel the man’s gaze on his back until, a block later, Castiel unlocks his own studio and begins to set up for the day.

\--

“Did you see the new yoga studio that opened up?” Charlie asks from the front desk between classes.

“No,” Castiel replies, frowning. He passes the soft towel in his hands across the back of his sweaty neck; he’s wearing yoga pants and a women’s racerback athletic tank top, all of the the material clinging to his skin from tousled head to bare ankle.

“Well,” Charlie picks up her phone and scrolls through a few things. “Y’know the empty space on the corner? I saw people last week moving things into it and some painters and stuff. And then I got online and started browsing through local businesses, and came across a small online ad for the new place.” She holds up her phone so Castiel can see the Instagram page she pulled up. “It’s called _Metallica Meditation_.” 

“Oh.” Realization filters through Castiel’s brain. “I think I saw the instructor this morning.”

Charlie uses her finger to scroll down to a photo of a man, “This him?”

Leaning forward, Castiel looks at the photo of the man he saw this morning. He’s radiant, smiling huge, the arm of a much taller man draped across his shoulders as they pose in front of a wall with a large, intricate mural painted on it. The mural is loud, harsh lines and bold colors, pretty much the opposite of calming and soothing - two things that yoga studios are known for - but the two men look enthused and confident. Frowning, Castiel takes Charlie’s phone and scrolls through a few more photos.

“‘New age yoga’,” Castiel reads aloud, “‘unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Relax to the sweet shreds of Metallica, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, and other greats as we help you explore the maximum potential of your body.’” He wrinkles his nose. “This has to be a joke.”

“It’s not,” Charlie says, taking her phone back. “This Instagram already has over two thousand followers, _and_ the door to his studio has been practically a revolving door all day. I think today is the grand opening.” 

Castiel glances out the large front window of his studio, clearly able to see the other yoga studio on the corner of the street. Sure enough, there are people lingering around outside, red solo cups in hand, smiles on their faces. Interestingly enough, it’s quite an… eclectic crowd. Castiel spots a lot of men with long ponytails and leather across their shoulders, lots of men in general, actually, and he squares his shoulders as he drums his fingers on the counter.

“How much time until my next class?” 

“Um,” Charlie glaces at the computer, “about forty minutes or so.”

“I’ll be back,” Castiel announces. He walks out of his studio barefoot, yoga clothes still clinging to him slightly with a thin layer of sweat, his hair messy from running his fingers through it after corpse pose. It takes him less than a minute to cross the street and approach _Metallica Meditation_ , some people in the lingering crowd outside sparing him a curious glance but otherwise ignoring him as they chat to each other. Sure enough there’s rock music blasting from the inside of the studio and Castiel enters through the propped door, glancing around. There’s a few tables set up with food and beverage, pamphlets in holders, and it looks like a nice, proper grand opening.

He’s spotted first, though. The tall man from the Instagram photo strides over, grin stretched on his features, his long hair pulled up into a bun as he thrusts out his hand. He’s wearing athletic pants and a t-shirt that has _Metallica Meditation_ emblazoned on it in a ring of fire.

“Hey! You’re Castiel, right?” 

Squinting slightly, Castiel reaches to shake the man’s hand. “I am. And you are?”

“Sam Winchester,” the man replies, dropping his hand and gesturing. “I’m the nutritionist here. My brother Dean is the yoga instructor.” 

Castiel’s eyes scan the people milling about inside the studio curiously. “I see.” 

“I’m really glad you stopped by,” Sam continues. “I was gonna drop by after the lunch crowd and see if you wanted to join us!”

“I have classes all day,” Castiel replies flatly. “May I speak with Dean?” 

“Sure!” Sam doesn’t seem to notice Castiel’s slightly defensive tone. “I’ll go get him. Help yourself to some kombucha or veggies!” With that Sam turns and walks away, leaving Castiel to go find his brother.

Deciding to glance around, Castiel slowly meanders. The yoga studio itself, set aside from the lobby, is about the same size as his own and can probably hold up to twenty people. The hardwood floors are stained dark, and all of the guest yoga mats rolled up in the corner are black. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors lining two adjacent walls are clean and smudge-free, this yoga room directly in front of a large picture window that peers out onto the street. A very similar setup to Castiel’s yoga studio, but then again, most of the spaces on this block have the same blueprints. 

The main difference is that where Castiel’s studio is bright, serene, and calming, Dean’s studio is dark, challenging, and slightly… aggressive. As someone who trained so vigorously and thoroughly to become a guru, this practice is nearly offensive. 

He’s standing in the center of the empty yoga room, arms folded over his chest as he stares at the stereo and the surround speakers that take up the corner spaces in the ceiling. There’s a shift in the air behind him and he glances into the mirrors to see Dean approaching, so Castiel turns around and drops his hands, opening up his body language.

“Heya,” Dean says, holding out his hand with that disarming smile. He’s still wearing those tight, tiny red shorts from this morning. “Welcome to the grand opening!”

Castiel takes his hand for a firm shake, “Your concept is… interesting.” 

“Thanks,” Dean says. His hand lingers for the briefest of moments before he pulls it away and shrugs. “I wanted to try and draw in the outliers, y’know? Lotsa people look at yoga and immediately think yogis are these weird hippie people, or breatharians or whatever. This stereotype sometimes leads people away from the practice.” His grin brightens. “Didja see how many badass dudes are out there? Bikers and construction workers? Those are the kinda guys that would _massively_ benefit from yoga but can’t shake the uh…” he seems to struggle for a word, “the implications that are attached to doing yoga.” 

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “And what implications would those be?” 

Dean seems to sense his misstep, but he sticks to his guns, which Castiel finds himself impressed by. “Look, the fact of the matter is that your average dude looks at yoga and just assumes it’s for women or whatever. They’re afraid to come in and do something good for themselves because it threatens their identity. This?” He gestures around to the empty space they’re standing in. “This is just a place to come and do some stretches and listen to some awesome music. Everyone is welcome. And hopefully, everyone feels comfortable.”

“You mean to say that my traditional, peaceful yoga practice, with soft music and affirmations, is… uncomfortable to some people?” Castiel knows he sounds affronted, but he can’t help it. This is his _life’s_ work. 

“Well-” Dean rubs the back of his neck, somewhat sheepishly, like he regrets that he’s insulting Castiel’s practice, but doesn’t necessarily regret his own stance. “Yeah. But everyone has different tastes, man. Some people like to relax to delta waves or singing bowls, some people like to relax while listening to other stuff. I’m just offering the ‘other stuff’.” 

Castiel falls silent. Of course, he’s not so narrow-minded to completely disagree with Dean, because he _does_ have a point. Doing flows to thumping heavy metal and guitar riffs hardly sounds relaxing to Castiel, however. But, he reflects, this is Dean’s practice, not his. So if this is how Dean wants to enter the yogi world, then so be it. 

After a moment of silence between them, Castiel’s shoulders relax minutely. “Your way of thinking is… unique. I wish you luck with your business.” 

That breathtaking smile pulls Dean’s full lips once more, exposing his beautiful teeth and making the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly. “Thanks, Cas. And you, too.” 

Inclining his head, Castiel leaves the studio. He passes through the crowd and makes his way back to his own studio, ruminating on Dean’s views. An alternative yoga studio.

Ridiculous.

_Brilliant_.

\--

Castiel’s yoga studio is open four days a week; Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. He can afford to do this since he’s been in practice for ten years already, and his studio has been declared as a ‘must see’ for the city. He has an established clientele and is constantly welcoming both newcomers and ‘just passing through’ers alike. He practices and teaches peace and clarity, and prides himself in being generally unruffle-able. 

Dean Winchester ruffles him. 

_Metallica Meditation_ is open Friday-Saturday-Sunday, the hours optimal for the blue-collar clientele that he’s trying to bring in. Castiel has to hand it to him; there’s a steady stream of people in and out of the studio for a good month, and his business seems to be doing well. 

But that’s not why Dean ruffles him.

Castiel used to hold his practices with the front doors of his studio propped open so the ambient noise of the street could lay over his diurnal music and add depth to it. Now he has to hold practice with his doors shut because the wailing sounds of Led Zeppelin and whatever other bands Dean favors sail directly into his studio, the acoustics of the neighborhood making it sound like the music is originating from right outside the door. 

It’s grating.

Castiel’s clients don’t seem to mind. They’re loyal to him, he knows, but they do comment on Dean’s practice. Many of their comments revolve around the handsome brothers that run it, and at least on that front Castiel can agree with them. The men are incredibly handsome, friendly, nice - good neighbors (save for the blasting music), and good businessmen. It’s hard to not find them alluring. They transformed the quiet neighborhood, a radius of four blocks cut out from the hustle and bustle of the city, romantically cliche with its storefronts, green lung, cafes, and the everyone-knows-everyone atmosphere. There’s a lot more foot traffic and overall, since _Metallica Meditation_ opened, the economy has boosted. Castiel can be thankful for that and recognize that it’s done the neighborhood good.

Even if the peace has been disrupted.

As we’ve noted, Dean ruffles Castiel. 

It’s Sunday, the one day of the week that Castiel spends thoroughly cleaning the studio and beautifying it, recharging it after a busy weekend. He mops floors, washes walls, cleans windows, and re-pots flowers that need a little extra TLC. He’s outside currently, sitting in butterfly pose on the sidewalk, surrounded by fresh flowers, empty pots, and bags of dirt and compost. He’s meticulous and careful as he examines each flower - he gets these for free from the market from one of his clients - checking its stem and its petals before carefully planting it in a pot. The pots are another gift from a client and her pottery barn; the dirt and compost bags a gift from her husband. Castiel thrives on trade and always gives his more personable clients a little extra before or after their sessions. He also curates his own honey in a cozy apiary he keeps in his backyard, and the locals love it - including the cafe, with whom he trades his honey for their best tea.

Castiel has his airpods in, dutifully drowning out the guitar riffs echoing along the quiet streets. He has a beautiful color scheme of fuschias, reds, oranges and yellows to design for the front window of his studio, intending on brightening up the usually serene and calm colors. He’s not quite sure why he’s been inspired by these bolder colors, but he never fights inspiration, always choosing to follow it through. Like the ebb and flow of the world around him, Castiel’s tastes change frequently. 

A shadow falls over the pot he’s currently packing with dirt, causing him to glance up. Dean is standing in front of him, beatific smile on his features, a light sheen of sweat clinging to his freckled skin. He may as well be shirtless, the shredded tank top on his torso doing absolutely nothing to hide his modesty. Castiel can see his left nipple clear as day. He’s wearing biker shorts, the yin to the yang of Castiel’s yoga pants, and he looks… good as sin. 

Castiel reaches up to pull an airpod out. “Hello, Dean.”

“Heya, Cas,” Dean greets cheerily. He gestures at the mess Castiel is currently settled into, “Redecorating?” 

“These colors attracted me this morning,” Castiel replies. “I thought I might try to arrange something new.” 

Dean drops into a squat, knees cracking, elbows resting on his thighs as he peers around at the different flowers. “Pretty different from your usual palette, innit?”

Blinking, Castiel tilts his head.

Dean catches his gaze before ducking his own, letting out a little breathless chuckle, “I mean- normally you’re all about those blues and greens. Calm as the mediterranean sea or whatever, y’know?”

“You have such a way with words,” Castiel comments dryly, “fellow yogi.” 

Shifting to sit on his butt across from Castiel, Dean shrugs. With his back to the sun the shadows dancing across his body cut out his biceps beautifully, and Castiel has to force himself to return his attention to the pot he’d been packing. “D’you need help?”

“Don’t you have a class?” Castiel asks, but not with bite. His gaze lifts to look down the block to Dean’s studio, and now that his airpod is out he can hear blessed quiet on the street. 

“Last one just ended,” Dean replies. “Sammy’s running a nutrition class right now.” 

“I see,” Castiel hums. He picks up a bundle of fuschias, putting them in the center of the pot and gently packing the dirt around their pre-packed soil. Next he picks up a bundle of orange rhododendrons, arranging them neatly beside their new fuschia friends. “I’m not sure you’ll find this very entertaining.” 

“Why not?” Dean asks, curious.

“You run a yoga practice for rough-and-tumble men,” Castiel starts as he picks up a bundle of red perennials, “your wear your masculinity like armor, and I happen to know you’ve gone on quite a few dates with some of my clients… which all ended with a fun night and no ‘morning after’.” He speaks casually as he starts tucking dirt around his mini arrangement. “Practicing floral arrangements with a gay man in a progressive neighborhood doesn’t really strike me as something you would find much joy in.” 

Dean’s quiet for so long, Castiel gets worried he may have actually offended him. He knows he can be blunt, perhaps too much so, and his intention wasn’t to hurt Dean’s feelings; just try to get them on the same level. He and Dean are so opposite, he can’t fathom that Dean would actually want to do something like get to know him. 

When their eyes catch, Dean sends Castiel a wolfish smile.

“You’re gay, huh? So that means I have a chance.” 

Castiel blinks owlishly. “Chance at what?” 

“To take you out on a date,” Dean says confidently. 

Rolling his eyes, Castiel shifts into a flat-footed squat so he can move his full pot off to the side and out of the way so he can drag an empty one over. “I’m not into one night stands.” 

Dean stretches out languorously on the warm concrete on his side, elbow bent so his hand can hold his head, one of his legs bent at the knee so his hand can rest on it, and it’s such a ridiculously cheesy pose that Castiel has to clear his throat to keep from laughing as he pours some dirt into the new pot. “You didn’t say no.” 

“I didn’t say yes,” Castiel counters. 

“So there’s a chance,” Dean needles.

Huffing, Castiel levels Dean with his gaze. “Were you going to help me, or annoy me?” 

Laughing, Dean sits up. “A little bit of both, but I actually gotta get back to the studio.” He shifts to stand, dusting some loose gravel from his backside. “And for the record, Cas… Fuschias pair great with ferns, if you want a fuller pot.” He turns and walks away, small smirk on his lips as he waves a hand over his shoulder.

Castiel stares dumbly after him.

He blinks at his fuschias. He pulls out his phone, does a quick google search, and then wrinkles his nose when he sees Dean is correct. 

He resolutely does _not_ change his arrangement… but when he starts in on the marigolds, he can’t help but liken their petals to how Dean’s eyes look when the sun catches on those pretty spring green irises. 

\--

“Not that I don’t like the change,” Charlie pipes up when Castiel enters the studio on Wednesday morning, “but… the front of the studio is pretty loud for your tastes.”

Castiel turns and looks thoughtfully out the window, where his display of bold, bright, and romantic colors dominate the soft teal outer paint. “I suppose it is. But… the flowers drew me in on Sunday morning, so I went with it.” 

Charlie is grinning when Castiel unloads his personal belongings into his little caddy on her desk. He doesn’t have much; his keys, cell phone, and wallet. “It looks really good, Cas.” 

“Thank you, Charlie.” 

The morning goes easily enough. His clients are their usual cheery selves; that’s to say, it’s five in the morning and even though they find peace and balance through practicing with Castiel, there are still sleepy grumbles. As the hours and classes pass, there’s a name suspiciously absent. Normally by this time he’s heard Dean’s name at least three times - and even though Castiel had called Dean out on it, the women never speak badly of Dean. A lot of them reminisce about their good time and how they wish they could go for another; “the one that got away”, almost all of them said. 

In any case, not a word about Dean has been uttered by eleven a.m., and Castiel is mildly suspicious. During the break, since none of his classes are in session, he props open the doors of his studio to let in the the warm summer air, the raucous sounds of Metallica immediately filtering in. By now Castiel is relatively unaffected by the noise; he goes about his business of cleaning, calling clients, and organizing his thoughts for new routines. When the hour is up Castiel shuts the doors and then returns to his practice room to prepare for his advanced balance class. 

He’s surprised to see Dean filter in with the crowd. It must show on his face, because Dean just sends him a cheeky grin and a wave, unrolling his mat in the middle of the room, slightly to Castiel’s left. The other participants are eyeing him curiously; most of them know who Dean is, and some of them don’t, but no matter what… he’s the only man in the room, and with his threadbare AC/DC tank top and tiny red shorts, tanned skin and freckles on display, he’s quite a sight. 

Once everyone is settled, their attention on Castiel, Castiel expels a cleansing breath. Dean being here is a distraction, but Castiel is a professional and good at what he does; so he steps to the edge of his mat and instructs the class to follow him into mountain pose to start regulating their breathing. The balance class focuses on core strength and stamina. There aren’t many flows, and there are even less breaks between long-held poses. This advanced class is impressive and Castiel loves challenging his students to follow him into the more complicated poses. As they start through the motions Castiel occasionally lets his attention drift towards Dean to make sure he’s doing alright - but, of course, Dean is also an instructor, so he follows without a hitch. 

He’s graceful, too. Castiel is so used to seeing him walk with swagger, biceps flexing and smile charming as he makes his way around. But watching Dean gracefully stretch, bend, and contort himself into poses settles something deep in Castiel’s belly. As Castiel instructs he moves about the class so he can correct poses and postures, gently touching his students and helping them maneuver their limbs, but he gives Dean a wide berth. The man doesn’t need help, anyway; he’s flawless. 

The class is an hour long and by the time they all lie down in corpse pose, Castiel feels refreshed and energized, electricity buzzing through his veins. People get up in their own time, thanking Castiel as he sits in butterfly and sends them off with smiles and a “namaste”. There’s a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, and he’s thankful that today he decided to wear biker shorts instead of yoga pants. It’s hot outside and inside; he refuses to put air conditioning in the building, because the heat helps more than it hinders, even if it gets uncomfortable. Eventually, after everyone leaves, it’s just Castiel and Dean seated on their mats, gazing placidly at each other in the silence. Their gazes are locked, postures relaxed, sharing the peace of the moment and the exultation of pushing their body’s limits. 

Of course, it’s Dean that breaks the silence first. 

“Y’ever fucked in here before?”

Castiel’s spine stiffens at the same time heat spikes low in his gut. “Excuse me?” 

Dean leans casually back on his hands, glancing around the studio. “With the lights off, people from the street can’t see inside.” 

Mortification and arousal war valiantly in Castiel’s chest. “You can’t be serious.” 

“As a heart attack!” Dean says cheerily. He moves to crouch next to his mat, carefully starting to roll it up with deft hands. His thighs and calves flex attractively. “I’m just sayin’, man. Nothin’ like gettin’ railed while surrounded by mirrors. Really gives you new perspective… shows you a totally different side of yourself.” Mat rolled and tucked under his armpit, Dean stands and sends a smoldering smile towards Castiel. “Anyway, this class was awesome. You’ve got some good, strong flows.” Turning on heel, Dean lifts his free hand in a toss of a casual wave over his shoulder. “Later!”

Dean’s bare feet pad out of the studio and Castiel is left alone, blinking rapidly into the empty space. His dick is half hard and his cheeks feel hot and good _God_ , there’s no way Dean Winchester is _real_.

The riff of _Stairway To Heaven_ filtering through the open front doors of his studio ten minutes later prove him otherwise.

\--

Castiel can’t get Dean out of his mind. It’s entirely frustrating, as it has been since day one, but everything has been intensified since Dean’s “casual” conversation after Castiel’s balance class two weeks ago. Since then, no more of Castiel’s students have said anything incriminating about Dean - none of them have gone on dates with him, flirted with him, or exchanged anything more than pleasantries with him. Dean seems to have fallen out of everyone’s bed and straight into Castiel’s wet dreams, and at thirty-seven years old Castiel thought he was well past this stage of puberty, but when he wakes up nearly every morning sweating and on the verge of orgasm, it’s Dean’s name leaving his lips on a curse. 

And during classes, instead of focusing on his breathing and doing his utmost best to ensure that his students are all in proper form, his mind wanders into explicit territory, wondering what it’d be like to be pressed up against the tall, cool mirrors, back to the picture window that separates the yoga space from the world outside and all the people passing by. Dean has managed to, with a few simple words, implant an idea in Castiel’s head that he’d never even _fathomed_ before. And it’s not like Castiel has never been adventurous in bed- though, he must admit, he’s always been the more adventurous partner anyway. Previous boyfriends claimed to enjoy his ‘bendiness’, but rarely took full advantage of it, hardly ever pushed Castiel’s body to its limits. 

Dean could do it, Castiel’s traitorous mind whispers. 

Dean knows the limits of the human body and could easily figure out the limits of Castiel’s. And Castiel is skilled enough to return the favor. Images of he and Dean tangled up in one another filter into his mind, unbidden, at the strangest of times, and it’s starting to get a little out of hand. He’s going to break, at this point, but then… As he finishes his Sunday floral arrangements outside and glances down to _Metallica Mediation_ , Castiel decides:

He’d rather bend than break. 

Preferably, under Dean’s hands.

\--

The next time Dean wanders into Castiel’s studio it’s on Sunday, which means Castiel is alone. The door up front chimes with Dean’s entry and Castiel knows he kept the open sign ‘off’, something that people respect without even checking to see if the doors are locked. Castiel is waiting in the yoga studio, sitting in lotus and breathing deeply, all of the lights turned off. He’d checked this morning- Dean was right, with the lights off and the bright sun outside, it’s nearly impossible to see deep inside the studio, and one definitely can’t see far enough back to where the mirrors are lined up on the two walls.

Where Castiel is currently perched in front of. 

Castiel hadn’t invited Dean, and in fact he hasn’t seen Dean in over three weeks, but something about today had Castiel preparing for his visit. 

His yogi mind would call it intuition.

His dick would call it wishful thinking. 

Opening his eyes, Castiel slowly counts down from ten before focusing his gaze on where Dean stands, hovering in the open doorway. In the darkness Castiel can only make out his silhouette - and even just that is beautiful, the shadows dancing along curves and planes, accentuating his bow legs, the breadth of his shoulders and the nearly impossible narrowing of his waist. They don’t say a word to each other. The only sound in the studio is that of their breaths, even and deep, and then the soft padding of Dean’s bare feet as he approaches Castiel. Tipping his head back so he can look at Dean, who is now standing over him, Castiel’s skin prickles with heat when he registers the look of _want_ written all over Dean’s features. 

“Do you intend to fuck me in here?” Castiel asks brazenly. 

“Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting for?” Dean replies, cocksure smirk tilting his lips, green eyes bright even with just the dim light spilling from the large windows on the other side of the room.

“You seem convinced that I will let you,” Castiel replies. His heart thuds against his chest, his meditation screwed by Dean’s presence alone. 

“Well,” Dean’s hand reaches out, fingers carding through Castiel’s messy hair. Sitting in lotus, Castiel’s head is level with the upper half of Dean’s thigh. The touch is welcome, inducing a shudder that filters from the tips of his ears down to his toes, and Castiel can’t help the way his eyelids flutter slightly. Dean’s fingers slide around towards the back of Castiel’s head and then _grip_ , tilting Castiel’s head back forcefully. “Tell me no, and I won’t.” 

There’s a moment where Castiel is sure he’ll say no. He’s sure he’ll tell Dean to get out of his studio, get out of his head, get out of the neighborhood. He’s sure he’ll tell him he’s noisy and loud and annoying and arrogant, he’ll tell him yoga is meant for peace, not playtime. He’s sure he’ll tell Dean that he’s uninterested in his beautiful green eyes, the freckles on his cheeks, he’s sure he’ll tell Dean that he doesn’t care if there are freckles on his spine or ass, he’s sure he’ll tell Dean that he doesn’t think about those bow legs wrapping around him. He’s sure he’ll tell Dean that he’s not promiscuous, and surely is uninterested in taking on a promiscuous partner. He’s sure he’ll tell Dean that he’s the relationship type, but then again, hasn’t he already mentioned that before? And he’d mentioned that _before_ he’d started having gratuitous wet dreams about the man in all sorts of succulent positions, giving, taking, sweating, moaning…

That moment passes, and with Dean’s fingers tangled tight in his hair, Castiel closes his eyes and parts his lips in a low, vibrating moan.

Dean swoops down, and that moment gets completely obliterated from Castiel’s mind when their mouths connect in a fierce kiss. 

It’s incredible.

It’s rough, Dean’s teeth snagging on Castiel’s lower lip briefly before he sucks it into his mouth and tortures it until it swells. Seated prone, Castiel allows Dean to plunder him deeply and fully, wetly and messily, their noises passing between them and evaporating into the air. Suddenly Dean is pulling away, fingers still in Castiel’s hair, and then he’s yanking in encouragement for Castiel to get up on his knees, feet under him. He does so, compliant, and huffs out a hot breath when Dean presses on the back of his head to get his nose buried in his crotch. Castiel meets the bulge in his biker shorts with a hot, moist exhalation, feeling the fabric soak up the heat and disperse it. He can tell Dean’s half hard and Castiel is getting there as well, the taste and mere presence of Dean doing things to him that no other partner has.

“Cas,” Dean moans lowly.

Reaching his hands up, Castiel pulls on the tight waistband of Dean’s shorts, inching them down. The anticipation has Dean’s cock swelling to full hardness; Castiel pulls the waistband down and adjusts Dean’s package until the head of his cock is peeking out, swollen and shiny. Leaning forward, Castiel suckles gently on just the tip, lapping up the precum and kissing it chastely. Dean’s breath stutters and his hips rock, and Castiel continues to slowly pull his shorts down, exposing inch by inch of Dean’s beautiful, engorged cock. Snugging up the waistband behind his balls, Castiel sucks on his sac for a few beats, enjoying the way Dean rocks against him. He purposely turns his head to allow his stubble to scrape over the thin, sensitive skin, glancing up to watch Dean tilt his head back and let out a low groan. 

“Fuck, yeah, Cas,” Dean praises. He tips his chin down and their eyes meet; Dean removes his fingers from Castiel’s hair so he can pull his tank top off of his body, exposing every last inch of beautiful, tan, freckled skin, the swell of his pecs accentuated prettily by the perk of his nipples. It’s quite a view from down here, Castiel thinks. Their eyes meet again and Castiel chooses that moment to swallow Dean down to the root, the weight of his cock perfect on his tongue. “Jesus, your _mouth_ , fuck. Look at you.” Dean praises, carding his fingers a bit gently through Castiel’s hair.

Bobbing his head a few times, Castiel relaxes his throat and breathes through his nose as Dean rocks his hips. Castiel finishes sliding his shorts down his legs, and Dean steps out of them - the sound of tiny items hitting the floor echoing curiously - now able to comfortably spread his thighs and bend at the knee so he can thrust at just the right angle into Castiel’s mouth. Relaxing his jaw and allowing Dean to control the pace, it doesn’t take long for Dean to pull out and squeeze the base of his dick, tipping his head back with a groan. His hand is still tangled in Castiel’s hair, but Castiel’s eyes glance down to the floor to see a condom and a lube packet next to Dean’s crumpled, tiny red shorts, and he feels a grin split his lips before the rest of his brain catches up.

“Good to see you’re on board,” Dean says. 

His hand moves from Castiel’s hair down and then both hands tuck into Castiel’s armpits to heft him up, the slightly shorter man letting out a surprised laugh with the sudden movement. He catches sight of Dean’s trademark roguish grin before Dean’s hands spin him around to face the mirror; one of Dean’s palms rests in the crease of his hip, and the other goes right between Castiel’s shoulders, pressing him forward. Reaching out, hinged at a ninety-degree angle, Castiel’s arms can stretch so his palms rest flat against the mirror in front of him. When he lifts his head to see Dean’s reflection, Castiel’s mouth goes dry at the sight.

“Let’s flow,” Dean’s whisky-rough voice tumbles down Castiel’s spine. 

There’s a brief shuffle where Castiel struggles to pull his top off and toss it aside, and then he’s stepping out of his pants, both men buck naked and panting. Both of Dean’s hands go to Castiel’s hips, and there’s not a single moment of hesitation that flickers through Castiel’s mind as he allows Dean to manhandle him into position. They pause for a moment, Dean pulling Castiel up to mountain pose, his plush lips kissing a trail down the curve of Castiel’s neck. They sync their breaths, Dean’s chest hot and sticky against Castiel’s back, and then Dean’s hands are sliding up from Castiel’s hips to his shoulders, only the slightest bit of pressure in his palms.

“Swan dive to forward fold.”

Castiel extends his arms on either side, moving them in a graceful arc as he hinges at the waist and bends his knees slightly, forearms wrapped around the backs of his calves, forehead to his knees.

“Straight back, monkey.” 

Pushing his feet into the floor, Castiel’s knees lock, hands on his thighs as his back goes straight, a perfect ninety-degree angle. Here Dean’s mouth peppers kisses down the length of his spine, stubble rasping over his rapidly heating flesh. 

“Arms up to chair.” 

Another graceful sweep of his arms and Castiel bends his knees, strengthening his thighs as he holds his arms stacked straight on his shoulders. Here he can see their reflections in the mirror again, Dean’s gaze laser-focused on Castiel’s body as he holds the pose. He can feel Dean’s gaze like a caress over everywhere his muscles are flexed and tensed, sweat starting to gather at his brow from the scrutiny. This feels intimate beyond belief.

This feels… connected.

“Swan dive, forward fold.” 

Castiel follows the instruction. Dean’s palms move from his hips so his thumb can slide down Castiel’s crack, pressing dry against his hole, the barest hint of pressure. Holding back a moan, Castiel relaxes into the fold, allowing Dean to do as he please. Exhaling, he feels his hole flutter against Dean’s thumb and hears the answering groan Dean lets out under his breath. Dean’s palms then spread his cheeks wide, thumbs framing his pucker, and Castiel _almost_ loses his balance when he feels Dean’s hot breath ghosting over his sweat-damp skin.

“Your body is a piece of fuckin’ art,” Dean murmurs lowly. “Do you do acro-yoga?” 

“I dabble,” Castiel says. “Hard to find a strong enough partner.”

“You don’t base?” Dean asks, voice surprised. His hands slide up Castiel’s back once more, palms greedily rounding his shoulders. “Your arms are stacked.”

“I like the sensation of flying,” Castiel comes up from the fold so he can meet Dean’s gaze in the mirror. 

Dean’s gaze is lidded and dark, his lower lip caught between his pretty, narrow teeth as he regards Castiel thoughtfully. “Like an angel.” 

Castiel has all the willpower necessary to not blush at such a cheesy statement. He has so much willpower, in fact, he manages to roll his eyes and shift his body, moving closer to the mirror. “Less talking. More fucking me against this mirror.” 

“Mmmh,” Dean seems to shake himself out of whatever fog he was in, that charming smile spreading over his features again as he nods. He picks up the packet of lube from the floor and tears into it with his teeth like the barbarian Castiel fully believes he is, and then dribbles it messily down Castiel’s crack. 

It’s not cold, thankfully, but Castiel’s toes still curl anyway. When he’d told Dean he doesn’t do one night stands he hadn’t been lying. It’s been about six months since his last casual boyfriend, and Castiel spends much more time training his body to find peace and nirvana rather than how to achieve the greatest solo orgasm, so he can recognize that he might be a bit… needy. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, though, wasting no time in slipping his middle finger into Castiel’s body. Regulating his breathing, Castiel wills his muscles to relax, in tune enough with his body to not tense while Dean works him over. Dean thrusts his finger in and out a few times, presses this way and that; Castiel has both his hands pressed to the mirror and he sees in the reflection Dean dropping down to his knees, Castiel’s brain barely catching up before he feels Dean’s hot mouth sucking at his balls.

Groaning low, Castiel spreads his legs, rocking down against Dean’s mouth and back onto his finger. Dean sucks his balls so hungrily Castiel briefly worries that he’s going to actually swallow them whole, which distracts beautifully from the second finger sliding alongside the first. Castiel’s cock is now fully hard, leaking and flushed at the tip, a few drops of precum dribbling down onto the polished floor, where his unfocused gaze has landed as well. Dean works him over magnificently and then all sensation is gone, leaving Castiel breathless - and then Dean is pushing into him, his thick cock popping past Castiel’s rim with minimal force, sliding home in one smooth thrust.

For a moment, there’s stillness. Joined in the most intimate way, their breaths sync up again, Dean’s chest moving rhythmically against Castiel’s back. Castiel’s arms are bent, the length of his forearms bracing him against the mirror, his forehead pressed against the glass, his breath fogging the radius closest to his mouth as he wills his shoulders to unscrunch and relax. 

Then, there’s movement. 

Dean rocks his hips slow and gentle, making sure Castiel feels every millimeter of drag against his tight rim. Clenching his jaw, Castiel stays rooted, power in the soles of his feet, ass tilted to meet Dean’s thrusts better, and then like a rubber band snapping Dean pulls out nearly all the way to slam back in. Castiel’s braced arms keep him from colliding with the mirror but nothing can stop the wrecked moan that leaves his throat, everywhere their bodies touching slick with sweat and condensation from the heat that naturally accumulates in the studio with the sun beating through the big windows. Dean sets up a brutal pace, also rooted in the soles of his feet, their balance perfect, their height difference complementary, as they move together. 

As if able to predict the move - and maybe he can - Castiel puts power in his left foot as his right raises slightly. Dean’s right hand moves under the meat of Castiel’s thigh, slides on slippery skin towards the crook of his knee, and lifts. Flexible and sturdy, Castiel lets out a sharp cry as Dean lifts his leg up nearly parallel to his body, the shift causing his cock to strike directly against his prostate. A slight wiggle, a shift of the hips, and Castiel wraps his own arm around his thigh and plants his hand back on the mirror, holding himself wide open for Dean to ram into him. 

“Shit, fuck,” Dean whuffs out on a laugh concealed by a moan. “So _strong_.” 

This position allows Dean’s hand to move down towards Castiel’s cock, fingers wrapping tightly around the length. Castiel uses the leverage of balancing on one leg to help his body rock back against Dean’s, a beautiful push-pull of fucking and being fucked, Dean licking up the sweat trails that are falling down Castiel’s back and shoulders in rivulets. Electricity is sparking in every single nerve ending of Castiel’s body; the pleasure from Dean’s dick hitting him _just right_ coupled with the endorphin and adrenaline rush of Dean being able to control and contort his body just how he wants it accumulating in a lovely rush of euphoria. 

“When we’re done with this,” Dean’s voice barely has any pitch to it, his rough whisper sounding strained even though his body is performing with the utmost manner of control, “we’re gonna fuck in every fucking position. Fuck the Kama Sutra. I’m gonna get _real_ creative.” 

Arching his back slightly, Castiel’s head tips back as he uses the strength in his arms and shoulders to allow some oxygen into his now open chest. “Yoga girls aren’t enough?” He finds himself teasing, no malice in his tone, almost too fucked out to string together the sentence.

“Fuck no,” Dean squeezes the meat of Castiel’s thigh tightly in his palm for emphasis when he says, “They’re bendy but they ain’t _strong_.” His teeth nip at the shell of Castiel’s ear. “They ain’t you.”

A witty retort dies on Castiel’s lips when Dean’s palm drags roughly over the head of his wet cock. It won’t take long for him to peak, and he focuses every last bit of willpower to start tightening his channel, delighting in the surprised moan that Dean lets out when his cock is squeezed. Too much tension and buildup prevents them from dragging this out for too long and Castiel shoots first, spilling over Dean’s fist, cum spurting onto the mirror and globbing onto the floor below them. Dean’s thrusting speeds up and he relaxes his grip on Castiel’s thigh so he can put it down and brace himself properly against the mirror, feet spread and planted as Dean fucks into him so hard he nearly loses his balance. Dean groans Castiel’s name when he comes, which is kind of cute, and then their bodies disconnect, the only sound in the yoga studio their heavy breathing. 

“Towel,” Castiel manages to say as he sinks down to the floor, his thighs trembling not from exertion but from excitement. 

Dean goes to the towel rack and comes back with two, handing one to Castiel. They clean themselves up, Castiel doing what he can for the mirror and the floor without proper cleaning products, and then they sit in lotus next to each other, knees touching, reclined back on their hands as they stare out the big picture windows that separate them from the outside world. 

“Damn,” Dean breaks the silence, because he can never shut up. 

Castiel rolls his shoulders and rotates his neck, humming. 

“Y’know,” Dean turns towards Castiel, spring green irises soft and slightly hesitant. “I uh. Don’t do one night stands, either. ...Anymore, anyway.” 

Turning his head towards Dean and arching a brow, Castiel sends Dean a dry look. 

Rolling his eyes Dean reaches out and shoves at Castiel’s shoulder. “You’re such a dick, you know that?” 

“I’ve been told,” Castiel acquiesces. “And yet, here you are.” 

Dean’s smile purifies Castiel’s soul in a way yoga never has. “Here I am.” 

Perhaps Dean Winchester isn’t so bad, after all. 

“Know what this place needs? Some Zepp.”

Well… no one’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact, one of my yoga instructors really plays metallica during our sessions and regales us with fun and interesting alcoholic beverage recipes, which is honestly where the inspo for this story came from.


End file.
